


Moving On

by Syllis



Series: Seek To Mend [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, Love Epiphany, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Power Imbalance, Prophetic Visions, angry gods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllis/pseuds/Syllis
Summary: Moving on is Marcus' story; a continuation of the events ofQuagmire; and running concurrent to the events inAwakenings.Plagued by ghosts and gods, Marcus finally wakens to clarity. He is willing to meet the Dovhakiin half-way, to see if they can rebuild their partnership on a more equal footing, but never gets to have that conversation. After risking his life to protect his man from the Companions, he inadvertently lets his true feelings slip--Which is how Marcus finds himself relegated to courier duty.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Series: Seek To Mend [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1293077
Kudos: 3





	1. No Answers

**Author's Note:**

> Marcus isn't the easiest to write; and he continues to make poor choices along his way, but I still have hope that he'll get to where he needs to be.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen Accords of Madness, v. IX
> 
> Vaermina's Tale
> 
> "Just have to keep running", he thought to himself. "I have to run as fast as I can"
> 
> All gods lie.
> 
> \--

“Marcus!” Ilona was standing directly in front of him, looking down into his face, her skin flushed angry-pink.

A pulse of alarm rippled through Marcus and his hands clenched onto the shaft of the tamper. His dragon-soul poked its head up from under a wing. No, it was all right. It was just that Ilona looked odd to him because she wasn't all dusty. Like the other workers. Like his own hands. He took two breaths and forced his grip to relax. Marcus should not be brandishing something that could be a weapon. His dragon-soul settled back down and curled up, tail wrapped about itself and went back to sleep.

Too much conversation was going on around him. Too many words. Marcus returned his attention to his task, setting down gravel in the new sluiceway. Important work that would help keep the mine paths clean and dry. So Marcus ensured the small stones were packed in good and tight, working with care. Otherwise the gravel might rinse away, and--

"Are you even listening to me?! Look at me. Marcus!"

Days had gone by since Marcus had spoken a word to anyone so it would be a few moments before he could manage it. Whatever else Ilona was saying was getting drowned out by all the shouting. Couldn’t she go take care of that noise? Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, but when Marcus turned his head to look square on, he saw nothing. 

Oh. 

It wasn’t the other miners quarreling and complaining. It was just Marcus’ ghosts again. Tossing his head to resettle his coif, he went back to his work, where the ghosts couldn't touch him. 

Ilona had not gone away. “Can’t hear you.” Marcus muttered.

When Ilona took hold of his shoulders-- 

Why? What had Marcus done?

\-- he shook her off and threaded his way up the mine-path to the exit. The too-bright sky hammered him nearly flat and he staggered, wiping his sleeve across his watering eyes.

Ilona had followed up right close behind him and nearly stumbled over his heels, her body so close in that moment that Marcus could feel the heat of her breath on the back of his head. When he flinched away, still blind from the light, he didn't need to see her face to know that it was set in lines of distaste.

Other workers were looking at him oddly. He could feel that too. Something had happened; Marcus had done something. Time for Marcus to be moving on. But instead of kicking him out of the camp, Ilona threw her hands up in the air and stalked off.

Marcus’ ghosts persisted. He could get ahead of them for a little while, but they always caught up to him. Squinting, he paced a tight circle, praying for his eyes to adjust, brushing the streaks of gritty dirt from his face. Ghosts exist in dark places. They never lingered where Marcus could see them directly.

A couple of dozen ghosts had gathered this time, all demanding his attention. No, he did not know how much of their property had been lost. Marcus was trying to say, he was more worried about the people. What had happened to the people? Two farmers began to argue with him, voices rising above the din. Marcus got their point. As the farms died, the people died, as less and less food made its way to the unaffected cities. Of course they were right. But what was Marcus supposed to do-- 

He had never gotten any answers.

Ghost hands clutched and grabbed at him, rough-palmed from hard work; scabbed and cracked from the ash...but if the hands weren’t real, the touch was a lie. Marcus had learned that a lie had no power to move him. He stood still and waited for the ghosts to stop pawing at him; making it clear that he would wait to let them have their say. If he did, the ghosts might give up for now and go away.

Ilona had not given up. 

She’d just gone to get Alfgar the Dovahkiin: “--don’t know what’s going on with him!” She gestured at Marcus. “He’s been so odd. But I’ve never seen him like this...”

Another three ghosts had shown up to engage in the argument and now Marcus could hear the deadly wind rising, too, the pitched howl of the ash-laden wind that scours flesh from bone. Gods had come to weigh in; they wanted to admonish Marcus too; and the voices of the gods grew so roaring-loud that even his ghosts chose to walk off, slope-shouldered and disappointed.

Marcus could no longer hear Ilona at all.

With gestures, Alfgar tried to persuade him away from the mine entrance. Marcus would not let some man coax him from a place where there were many people present, to a place where there might be none. 

Marcus had learned better.


	2. Mirror

The Dovhakiin's eyes were empty holes punched through to the searing-blue sky. Marcus could read nothing in them. How long had Marcus been underground? He had to look aside because his eyes were still not adjusted to the light.

“Are loud?” Alfgar allowed himself to use a bit of his dragon-voice; it cut through all else. 

Yes. So loud that his vision was blurring. So loud Marcus couldn’t hope to speak over the gods. He did not try. Had he been trying, earlier?

Alfgar tossed something at him: “My tent. Come.” 

The coin, again. Glinting in the mud at Marcus’ feet, mirroring the low-angled light. Too bright. It hurt him, but he could not look away. Why would a mirror so catch his eye?

Marcus stood still for a long time, fighting compulsion.

In the end he broke. Coin in his hand, he went.

\--

Alfgar touched Marcus’ mouth as he came in. If Marcus had been about to speak, it would have hushed him immediately. Alfgar reached for the largest slate, scraped it clean, and sat with stylus posed.

“Sit. What say these gods?”


	3. Ending

Marcus found himself sitting on the bench, one hand clasping his knees.

Time had passed. His throat was sore. The metal disc he cupped still reflected back the light. Was it a face? A mirror? His hand moved, tilting it to shift from one to the other. The wool of Marcus' tunic had begun to feel warm-to-burning from the stove behind him, but his feet were still damp and cold. So it had been some time, but not too much time.

The Dovahkiin cleared his throat.

As Marcus opened his mouth to speak the words of the gods, the gods fell silent.

Were these even gods? 

Marcus didn’t know. He couldn't think, not with his head ringing. The sudden silence was just as paining to his outraged ears. Even Marcus' ghosts had gone mute, their presence receding.

Caritas shuffled towards him and sat by his feet, her round face anxious. 

"Naught worked but that coin," noted the Dovahkiin. "Why does it bring you here?"

Coin? Marcus tipped the disc back and forth in his hand. It was a gold orange, it was the light of the sky; it was the path of the ancestors; it was the road leading outwards; it was a.... 

"Not a coin." Marcus tried to show him. "It is a mirror, and a mirror is a ladder. Or a bridge? From one world to another." He held it up, in demonstration. "Yes?" 

The Dovahkiin seemed more interested in writing than listening.

So Marcus stopped talking, to see if his ghosts would weigh in. But they had already vanished, scorning him. All was silence, cold and dark. He broke on the black rocks of it:

“They hate me!" he cried. "There are a thousand thousand of them and all of them follow me, they hate me, they hate me. ‘What did you do to us!’ ‘We are dead, dead, dying, damn you as you have damned us!’” The weight of their pain speared through his chest: “Why?! I cannot help them; I could not--” Marcus covered his face with his hands to stop himself, gasping through the tears. “I cannot hold-- Matters that weigh only years to mortals weigh on…”

Alfgar the Dovahkiin continued to write as Marcus hiccuped into dry sobs. 

“Don't you see where you really are? The red is gray; the gray has gone to black. The world is burning. It ends. It is ending. Don't you know what this war is? Can't you hear the wings?" He gasped for breath, suddenly choking on air that had gone too thick to breathe. "I don't know where I am!" He lowered his hands, in the terror that this place would be gone, too.

The Dovahkiin fixed him with a piercing blue glance. "Are done?"

"Aldmeris bore witness... but they fall. They're all crumbling," Marcus whispered. "No. No more. We--" His fingers pressed against his mouth. "We are done."

The nipped-down tuft of the Dovahkiin's stylus kept moving along, as the man frowned down at his page. Because it was nonsense. Everything that Marcus could ever speak would be worth less than nothing. Because it was no more than another lie.

In this new silence, the wood crackled in the stove. Three men shared a quiet conversation as they walked along the corduroy road outside the tent. Marcus could hear the steady waters of the Karth purling in its bed below them. But not his gods or his ghosts. All had abandoned him. He covered his face with his hands, rocking.

Ilona started to get up. Marcus knew that she meant to come to him. 

Alfgar the Dovahkiin rose from the table. “Let him be. Whatever he suffers, he calls it fair-earned.”

Ilona protested.

“Stop,” Alfgar commanded more sternly. “He takes no comfort. You will upset him more.” With that he went outside.

Marcus ached to flee, but Caritas' fingers snaked around his ankle in a tight grip. She patted his foot with her other hand to soothe him.

As soon as Alfgar came back, Ilona faced him down. “I don’t like it, that you have to do with him. He’s clearly ill. And so young! It’s not right.”

Alfgar the Dovahkiin’s broad-backed, sturdy chair echoed his groan as he settled back into it. “Bethink you some suggestion, then? Other than leaving this one to stand on the road. If not me, he will go with the next man who asks.” 

To Marcus he said: “Go to bed.” And Marcus did as he was bidden.


	4. Awake

Sometime at night Marcus woke, profoundly disoriented.

Alfgar’s great snoring bulk next to him was nothing new, but he did not recognize these tent walls nor the sounds of this camp. Puzzled, he slipped out of the bed and into his boots, limping quietly into the next room so that he could pull them all the way on without waking Alfgar by stomping about. 

The chill of the outdoors struck him and caused him to need the privy more urgently. Marcus did not know where it was; but his feet did, and led him there. When he came outside, he looked at the corduroy path, and all of these buildings closing in around him. Was this a town? He recognized none of it. 

Both moons were up; Masser a waxing gibbous; Secunda just now rising and nearly full. The air was silvery and clean, full of a curious liveliness for winter. Snowdrops were already pushing through the mud at the side of the path.

Alfgar’s new tent was far more lavish than the one they’d been used to sharing-- it had a table, a bench, several chairs, shelving for books and papers, and even a stove on metal legs, raised above the rough planks of the wooden floor. Marcus couldn’t find the water-butt, but there was a neglected teapot half-full of cold snowberry tisane, and he drank all it down even as it made him shudder with its chill. 

There was no place else to sleep.

So Marcus tugged his boots off and climbed back into bed, tucking both feet against the warmth of the man beside him. When he resettled his coif, Marcus' fingertips brushed across what was left of his hair, and he winced. 

What had he done?


	5. All this Mess

“Well, at least I’m not in jail this time. Think I’d better buy a better hat, though, to cover this mess.” Ilona didn't quite laugh, but her lip quirked. Marcus couldn't read her face. “Was I pretty bad?” 

Why wasn’t he in jail? It seemed to Marcus that he should be.

“Not too much.” Ilona poured herself more hot water and warmed her hands on the cup. “You talked to yourself quite a bit and got loud. It was starting to alarm the other workers.”

“So is there anything else I need to know? Do I owe any damages?”

“Nothing like that.” Ilona’s words lilted into a chuckle, as if Marcus were making a little joke. “Mostly you’ve been here. Working. Not causing trouble. Have some breakfast.” She reached into a cloth-covered basket and handed him a pastry. 

Where had this come from? As soon as he had the thought, Marcus could smell it. There was a new bake-oven, close by.

Marcus bit into it. Dried apple and raisin, delicious.

“That’s good.” Marcus smiled right back at her, because it would be all right. But just then the wind shifted to carry the copper-stink of smelting to him, and--

He drew a sharp breath to stifle his own cry.

Ilona made a questioning noise.

“Killed a man in Dawnstar.” Shocked screaming and the lake of blood. He had slashed the man’s face and then his throat, so there had been a lot of it. Flash of the knife, the white edge of bone; the burst of heat over his hand. Sitting in the jail cell for hours, covered with the reek of it. “Pretty sure I didn’t mean to.” 

“You meant to,” Ilona assured him. “And they called me back to testify at the assizes about why. There was an investigation. No wergeld was laid against you, and the man’s property was forfeited to the jarl.”

Far from being upset, she was beaming at him, pleased. That was not better, it was worse. “One of those Blackblood Marauders, hiding behind illusion magick. They had infiltrated the city guard. You saw it. Nobody else did. The jarl found another four of them and all sorts of collaborators. He had them arrested. Thank you.”

Now that the memory was back in Marcus’ mind, it bothered him. He set the pastry down. “Thanks. I don’t think I can eat just now.”


	6. I'm Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where this work earns its E rating!
> 
> Fair warning.

Alfgar the Dovahkiin came in, stamping his boots to clear them of the slush. He looked at Marcus, at once recognized that Marcus was in his right mind, and sighed his relief. 

Marcus went over to him and embraced him, stretching up for his kiss, those great arms bracing him.

“I’m here again,” he assured Alfgar. “I’m hm-- here. Mm. All here.” Giving up trying to talk under that onslaught of kisses and grabbed a handful of that shaggy hair, dragging the man’s head down further. He lifted his legs, locking them around the Dovahkiin’s waist.

Alfgar didn’t even bother with an apology to Ilona; he just dropped the things he’d brought in with him onto the floor, and carried Marcus into the sleeping-chamber.

“Don’t be so damned careful,” Marcus snapped. He was already panting, desperate for it-- it would be all right. He canted upwards. “Hurry up!” 

“Patience,” counseled the Dovahkiin, with a cautionary slap to his hip. Damn him, he was going to work it in slow no matter what Marcus had to say about it. Marcus squirmed.

“Get on with it!” Marcus demanded, but a big hand pressed down on his hips to still him. It went on and on and on. Marcus was trembling, sweating; the weight and size of the man on the verge of too much. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he managed, gasping. “Move!”

Rumbled laughter, and a rough hand beneath him gripping; stroking. Marcus pushed up into the shallow thrusts, whining. He knew what Alfgar wanted; for him to clamp down and grip; he was stretched too widely for that; his knees too far apart. The fingers squeezed, breathlessly tight; a high keening note of pain. Voice in his ear; verge of dragon-words again; that command: “Milk me.”

The fingers eased up, only to stroke lightly, swiftly, tugging the seed out of him as Marcus shuddered and moaned, his body pulsing as it instantly obeyed the command.

As soon as the pleasure faded and the pressure became too much, Alfgar patted his flank, pulling back to disengage, a momentary discomfort. 

Alfgar lifted up and nudged him, encouraging Marcus to roll over and face him. As Marcus did, he lifted his knees to assist; but Alfgar declined the hint, and merely leaned down into the embrace for more breathless kisses.

“Four months, you have not been with me” advised the Dovahkiin. “Tis near springtide.”

Marcus hadn’t come down at all; in fact he had his hand between them, already working himself back up. He stopped. The big man offered him the comfort of his thigh instead and reflexively Marcus took it, rubbing against him. Then Alfgar’s words registered, and Marcus collapsed against the bed, eyes widening with horror. The whole winter gone? But he could feel the Dovahkiin reacting to his distress. This would not do.

“Put me over the side of the bed,’ Marcus whispered. “Fuck me. Make me forget my own name next.” 

Alfgar leveraged himself up off the bed, and stood before him, staring. Marcus cursed himself; he was going to go away, he would leave Marcus like this; he would--. Marcus licked at his own mouth and stroked at himself, raising his hips and gasping, making a show of it. Is it the hair, he thought, frantically-- but that would have sealed his fate. He kept silent.

Oh, he needed to come again; if Alfgar wasn’t going to do anything about it, he was-- his eyes closed with the rising pleasure of it-- and just then the Dovahkiin grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him sideways and flipping him over in one smooth motion, pulling him down till he was over the edge of the bed.

“Up,” he was told, with another swat; and obligingly Marcus arched his back up further, to present his backside. Alfgar turned aside for a moment-- another swift application of horker salve-- and abruptly shoved Marcus’ thighs apart, sheathing himself to the hilt. A soft chuckle at the noise Marcus had made. He lingered there for a dozen breaths, whilst kissing the nape of Marcus’ neck, just where the stubble ended. 

“Don’t be nice,” Marcus warned.

Another low chuckle; almost a growl and: “Expect no ruth.”

Marcus braced himself. 

“I’m ready,” he whispered.

And then he could do nothing but snarl and whimper as the man rutted into him; he’d asked for it-- a gasp as he saw sparking stars of pain, they’d bottomed out. He’d tried to hide it, but Alfgar growled, grabbed his thighs in those huge hands, and re-aligned them, driving them together all the while, the bed groaning its protest.

Finally, the sweet dark started to come down; he was going to lose his mind with this. He kept bucking upwards-- yes, this is what he wanted, all of it, now-- You are too greedy. You must have everything, all at once, Lisette had told him-- his hands slipped out from under himself and he couldn’t wrest himself upwards again. Now!

He woke, muzzily, to broad hands stroking his back and murmuring his name.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I almost did forget. Now you remind me?”

Alfgar chuckled. He pushed an unresisting Marcus up onto the center of the bed and clambered up; in a moment they were spooned together, Marcus relaxing back into the warmth, enjoying the feel of it, the closeness. Both of his hands holding on to one of Alfgar’s.

“Four months,” he managed, sleepily.

“The worst yet,” agreed Alfgar.


	7. My Deal

Thankfully the sauna-house had been built; he was going to need to spend a long time within. Marcus leaned to pour a little more water near the coals, sighing as the scented vapor rose. and his muscles began to unknot. 

How many jobs had he left outstanding? Had he even thought to leave word for Auryen Morellus? None of what he could remember from Solitude was pleasant: Viarmo dismissing his application to the Bard’s College with a sneer and an impossible task; Lisette telling him she was too busy; she and Jorn staring at him and whispering. He rubbed at where his face still ached, from the backhand from Sorex Vinius that had sent him reeling into the gutter. Marcus didn’t know what he could possibly have done to earn that at the Winking Skeever, but it must have been impressive.

\--

“Dead Man’s Respite,” he said, in response to Alfgar’s question. “Said to be the resting place of King Olaf One-Eye.” 

“Think it likely?” Alfgar the Dovahkiin seemed dubious.

Marcus took another bread roll and bit into it. 

“Mmph. Not really.” Mouth full, he reached for his cup. “Famous king like that? If it’s a known tomb, believe me, the robbers have gotten to it. And it’s pretty close to Morthal, so it’s not exactly off the beaten path.”

Most of Alfgar’s current business was in Morthal. It wouldn’t be too far out of the way. 

“Show me.” Alfgar’s fingers drummed the great map that was tacked up on the shelf.

Marcus came around him to look it over. 

“There.” Marcus touched a crook in the river. “Northwards over the hills to the west. That’s all Giraud was able to tell me.” 

Solitude’s Dean of History had an odd demeanor at times, but he seemed to like Marcus well enough. And he had decent manners and was not averse to barter. Sometimes there were things that Marcus wanted more than money.

“It’s supposed to be a small place,” Marcus added. “Another reason why I think it’s probably empty.” He shifted on his feet. “Wouldn’t be too much trouble for me to check it out on my own.”

Alfgar growled, just loud enough for Marcus to hear. The two of them were close enough to be touching; that was how Marcus knew the sound of it was real. He let go of the man’s arm.

“This is my deal,” Marcus said. “Remember? I’m not working for you.”

This time the low growl expressed weariness. 

Alfgar was still looking for that damned horn for the Greybeards. Marcus was pretty certain the Dovahkiin had killed every third bandit in Hjaalmarch and interrogated the rest; but the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller was still lost.

“I still think the damned elves took it,” Marcus maintained. “The Thalmor have their sticky fingers all over everything.” Even if he and Alfgar had found it… “No guarantees that my uncle’s damned Thalmor wouldn’t have found a way to get his hands on that horn. Wouldn’t put it past him.”


	8. No Worthwhile Use

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragonborn --
> 
> I need to speak to you. Urgently.
> 
> Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you.
> 
> \-- A friend
> 
> \--

Two days later Marcus had his things ready to go; his boots re-greased; he blessed the kind soul who had cleaned his leathers before packing them away for him. He was going through his last bag when he came across the crumpled note again. Erdi had read it to him in Solitude, but it hadn't seemed too important. “Do you want this?” he asked, coming back in. 

Alfgar the Dovhakiin made an angry noise at the interruption and pointed.

Silently, Marcus dropped the note onto a corner of the desk. 

Alfgar was in a mood. 

Marcus waited till Alfgar stopped writing, though his own shoulders had hunched. Marcus didn’t want to talk anymore; all he really wanted to do was escape. The man had never offered him violence of any sort. 

Still.

If the Dovahkiin didn’t speak soon Marcus was going to bolt. He could feel the roiling tension in the air.

When he put his pen down, Alfgar covered his eyes for a long time before looking up. 

“Apologies.” The Dovahkiin’s eyes were all grey now. No blue at all. Marcus cursed himself for not seeing it earlier.

“Soon?” he asked.

“Hours." That wasn't just the undercurrent of the Thuum in Alfgar's voice, either. The beast was rising.

“Yeah.” Marcus coughed. “Want me to go with, spot you again?” Alfgar the Dovahkiin was uniquely vulnerable at such times; oddly, Marcus had no fear of him then. He had plenty of fear of him other times for no reason, but not then.

Alfgar nodded.

“This note is yours.” Marcus picked it up and handed it to him. “I didn’t know which one of your lady friends sent it.” He thought about it. Riverwood, which meant-- “Err. Whichever kinda friends.” 

Was it that Imperial shopkeeper? Marcus hoped so. That wood elf was friendly enough, but Marcus himself had standards, even if the Dovahkiin didn’t. No elves.

Alfgar was frowning at the paper. “Whence came this note?”

“Had it for a long time,” Marcus admitted. His dragon was roiling, turning and turning in place. “Found it stuffed in one of my belt pouches this fall, and I guess I forgot about it.”

“Where?” Alfgar slammed his hand on the table, causing the ink-pot to jump. “When?”

Bating its wings, Marcus' dragon-soul screamed and lunged, uselessly. Marcus had already taken the two steps backwards out of the tent, ducking under its canvas overhang. He fled.

Or, he tried. He didn’t get far.

Ilona and Caritas were standing right in front of him. Caritas’ mouth an O of surprise. She started to make little whimpering noises of panic. Marcus forced himself to calm.

“He’s in a temper,” Ilona discerned. “Go around the side and see if the woodpiles need stocking,” she told Caritas.

“He’s left it too long.” Marcus wondered if Ilona knew what he meant.

“I have seen this.” Ilona looked worried. “He had to find someone to help him while you were--”

“Yeah,” Marcus said, tautly. “I can take over from here. Tonight. Now, even. Guess I’ll need to get some more supplies packed.”

“All ready to go.” Ilona gestured towards the storage tent. “I’ve been trying to talk him into going for a week.” When she looked at Marcus, her lips crimped. “I didn’t think you wanted any further involvement.”

I do; I don’t.” Marcus shrugged off her concern. “I don’t know what I want, but--” He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do to get him to leave now.”

Alfgar was sitting with his head in his hands, the ink blotted up with a rag that rested nearby. _“Krosis.”_ Pardon.

“ _Drem_ ,” soothed Marcus. “I think I know where I found that note. It was in that pouch I bought when we were on the outskirts of Solitude, right after the--” Marcus swallowed. “Right after we did the lighthouse.”

Marcus focused on that word. After. That poor cat had just been doing his job. So. After they had cleaned their hands and weapons and come back down the coastal road, they had stopped to do business with Ma’dran’s caravan on their way out to Ustengrav. Marcus had bought a pouch and a small leather-punch. Alfgar had bought arrows and some cooking-spices. 

“Pretty sure the first time I wore this pouch was Windstad,” Marcus prompted. “Remember? Two or three bandits. Day before we went to Ustengrav, maybe. I remember I shoved some coins and gems in there, not much, just some little garnets… do you think the note got in there, then? Or was it Ustengrav?” 

“In Ustengrav indeed,” said Alfgar, grimly. “Read it. Here lies our horn. Had you not kept this from me--” He brandished the crumpled paper at Marcus.

Marcus looked down. He knew better than to speak, but--

“Take it!” Ahtar’s face had reddened from his anger. But he was in control. Somehow, that was worse.

“It won’t help me to take it.” Marcus’ hands were shaking too badly, anyway. “I can’t read it.”

Even as the sweat ran down his neck, Marcus made himself stand still; there should be no fear here. Alfgar was merely upset; he was not offering threat. He never had. He had never-- Marcus’ gut was still all twisted.

“I know. I’m no good to you, except for--” Marcus took a stuttering breath. “Bards won’t have me. Morellus-- he’s got no use for me either-- that’s why all I can do is bring him the scraps and potshards. Can’t help him research them; can’t help him catalog; there’s nothing else he can teach me.”

Alfgar just looked at him, eyes grey and opaque. 

Marcus couldn’t stop the shivers. “Ilona says I’m a pretty good worker; but that’s a lie, she just keeps me on here because of you.” When he tried to laugh it caught in his chest, painfully. “Guess I was alright as a whore, but--” he rubbed at his face and scraped his hands through the disaster of his hair. “Maybe not so much, now?”

He supposed he could go back to being a thief, but that was more stomach-knotting. He wasn’t very good at it. Marcus wasn’t good at anything.

Alfgar said nothing.

“I know,” Marcus said painfully. “You are angry, it’s my fault, and while we’ve had all this delay, the dragons have been--” 

Burning towns; attacking travelers. How many had died, due to Marcus’ carelessness? How many more would die? He twitched when his ghosts appeared, but they remained silent. No, they would not provide a distraction for relief.

“It is not that.” Alfgar’s lips took a long time to frame his nearly inaudible words. “It is the wolf.”

Marcus put aside his unwanted thoughts. “Then we need to go now. Ilona took care of our things for us.”


	9. Fool Me

Marcus kept talking as they headed further and further into the swamp.

Alfgar did not want to take the chance that he would encounter a worker from the camp; too much southward and he might run into a villager from Morthal; so north-northwest it was, towards the great rise topped by the dragon-mound.

It helped for there to be chatter around Alfgar when he got into this condition; he could no longer speak well, so it was up to Marcus to carry the conversation. Other things helped, but Marcus was fairly certain none of that was going to happen; in any event his thighs were still remarkably sore. Walking helped.

They set up camp near sunset, angling the tent and fire-screen to catch the warmth of the bonfire.

“Does this god devil you yet?” Alfgar wanted to know, once Marcus had finished the tale of Vaermina. 

Marcus adjusted the slices of ham on the grate. 

“In a way,” Marcus admitted. “I offered her what she willed, but--” he laughed, bitter. “Vaermina feeds on memories. I thought she’d take my past memories. More fool me.” 

The fat was getting too crisp and threatening to catch fire; he moved to set the meat aside till the potatoes were done.

“Four months,” he marvelled. “Vaermina took my future memories. Gods only know what havoc I could have wreaked-- and been excused for it. What do I do? Get a respectable job and bother no one. Apparently.”

“Honest pay for honest work.” Alfgar’s eyes crinkled amusement. 

“Somewhere the Prince of Madness is laughing at me,” Marcus agreed.

They ate in companionable silence.

Marcus’ ghosts did not make an appearance.

Marcus got the brazier set up for the tent; he liked to be warm. Alfgar, who did not, had gone to sit outside. Marcus came out to look. Secunda was rising.

“Might as well take those off.” He touched Alfgar’s tunic. “Here.” He undid all of the buckles and brooches that he could reach, and patted at Alfgar till he leaned down so Marcus could get the rest. Alfgar’s hands opened and closed, restless and clumsy, painful with the coming change. 

Soon. 

It was difficult for Alfgar to grip things now, Marcus knew. He sleeked his hands over Alfgar’s shoulders and back; touching him the way a lover would. Alfgar’s arms came up around him. 

“I’m here, okay?” Marcus asserted. “I’m different than you-- you’re not allowed to forget who you are.”

Alfgar had his face pressed against the top of Marcus’ head; he was taking in great breaths through his nostrils, getting the scent of him, Marcus guessed. He tilted his head back, exposing his throat, letting the man snuffle and lick his way downward.

“Think it’ll work?” Marcus asked. 

Sometimes sex did; it delayed the change-- or forestalled it entirely, if the moons were favorable. Something about how the urge to couple drove off the prey instinct; thank gods, or Marcus would have fled back to Haafingar by now. It was odd, Marcus was not afraid now, not in the least. He ought to be.

Alfgar made a low rumbling noise in the negative: no. He did not think sex would work.

“Okay-- you should go then.” Marcus shoved Alfgar off himself, as best he could. “Go. I’m here if you need me. Remember to come back.”

Marcus watched till he could no longer see the white gleam of the skin of the Dovahkiin’s back under the moons. There would be nothing else to see. He went back inside the tent and took off his outer garments to get into the bedroll. 

“Come back,” he whispered.


	10. Lying

Marcus had worried and demanded and threatened and coaxed and paid and whored for every scrap of information he could find about this condition. From anywhere, from anyone. They all lose themselves to the beast inside, it was said. Some in months; others in years. So, there would be a day when Alfgar would go out-- and never come back.

Marcus’ dragon soul roiled; restless. 

“ _Drem_ ,” he soothed, and it stilled. Like being with child, he thought, amused, but-- 

Where in hell that thought had come from? The Prince of Nightmares still lurked in his mind. She smirked, and gifted him the memory. Horrible, terrible, impossible beings; but Marcus had learned not to bother screaming, so he didn't.

Deep breaths of the night air helped Marcus push himself away from those thoughts and fall into sleep.

He woke to howls. A clawed grip wrenched him up out of the bedroll.

“Where?!” snarled a woman’s voice.

Marcus was gasping; his knife was was caught up in his bedding. A sinewy hand gripped his wrist and then he was pinned flat, unable to move. The woman leaned her face down to his, her hair stringing across his face. Her breath stank of raw meat and the rank scent of the wolf. 

“Where is he? Your wild one. Where?”

Marcus took shallow breaths, willing himself back from panic. He could see the other standing behind her, watching calmly. So. They wanted information, not his blood. He could negotiate.

“Let me up. I need to piss.” He grinned upwards. “Better get your weight up off me. Can’t hold out much longer.”

“Let him go, Aela. Unless you want to be sleeping out in the straw tonight.” Amusement tinged the older man's voice. He re-sheathed his dagger and moved aside. Marcus’ magickal sense gave warning: him too.

The wolf-woman growled and let him up. Her eyes were as grey as Alfgar’s had gone, washed to colorlessness by the beast. 

Marcus went to a tree, to give truth to his lie and to give himself time to think. Alfgar'd had to evade pursuit in wolf form, before. Neither he nor Marcus had ever learned why. So these were werewolves too. Interesting.

Unfamiliar howls, moving off eastward. Not Alfgar. So-- at least one more of them. Marcus listened, intently. Perhaps two.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marcus lied, to the woman’s renewed questioning. “I’m out here by myself.” Carefully, he lowered himself to the bedroll, settling down on top of what it concealed. Thankfully he’d had the forethought to tuck Alfgar’s clothes beneath. Alfgar’s boots and weapons were behind Marcus, at the rear of the tent. He tried to sit so as to conceal as much as possible. These two could probably see in the dark, but maybe he could keep them distracted.

Aela’s nostrils flared. “You’re untruthful.”

“Can’t help you.” Marcus crossed his arms.

“Skjor.”

Her counterpart came forward. “We know he’s nearby, whelp. Better give him up.”

“Who are you looking for?” Marcus asked. “Getting kind of confused here about what’s going on.”

“I don’t have a lot of patience,” Skjor warned. He wasn’t big for a Nord, rangy rather than broad, and not tall. He stood and spoke like a Legion man. Marcus couldn’t quite see the color of his eyes in the dim moonlight, but his flickering wolf-aura was still obvious.

Marcus clasped his knees and said nothing. The distant howls were growing further away, heading north. That was good. Alfgar must be well ahead of them.

“Got the stomach for it?” Skjor asked Aela.

“I need to run.” Aela looked uncomfortable.

“Go on, then,” Skjor indulged her. “I got this.”

Aela sniffed at the air, looking thoughtfully at him; at Marcus. So, she knew what would be. “It can wait.” She glared at Marcus: “Talk.”

“Are you looking for the Dovahkiin?” Marcus asked, recognizing that he needed to become more forthcoming quickly. Or this lady might well leave him to whatever it was that Skjor had in mind… and whatever that was, she did not want to stay around to watch Skjor do it.

The two werewolves exchanged a glance.

“Told you,” said Skjor. 

Aela put her hand up to interrupt him. 

She squatted down near the bedroll to bring her face level with Marcus’: “We’re hunting down a werewolf. Very dangerous business. The wild ones present quite a threat when they get into the settled areas. When they suffer the change, they’re aggressive toward humankind, and there’s no dealing with them. People end up dying. So when the Companions find out about one, we go looking.”

“To put them down,” said Marcus. “You kill them.”

She nodded.

“You never do anything else,” he clarified. “Say, if you run into a werewolf who, you know, keeps it under control. Never runs rampant, knows how to deal with it and so on.”

“It is too risky,” Aela said.

Well then. Marcus had tried. He put on that irritating smug-superior tone he’d learned from his uncle’s elf: “Oh, well then. I was just curious. Sorry. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Aela made a threat.

“All men die. I’m not too concerned.” He yawned. Oh, that _was_ irritating, look at her face. Marcus was going to have to remember this.

“Stop laughing,” Aela snapped at Skjor, irritated that her little interrogation was not going as planned.

“What exactly are we doing here?” Marcus wanted to know, after a few more moments went by of the werewolves trying to stare each other down. “I mean if you’re gonna do something, do it. I want to go to sleep.”

Aela licked at her lips and tossed her head. She wanted to join the chase. Now.

“Waiting on someone,” said Skjor. To Aela: “No. He confirmed it’s the Dragonborn. I’m not doing anything till Vilkas gets back.”

“Dragonborn,” Aela growled with distaste. “Another swindler to fleece the gullible.”

“Oh, the Dovahkiin's for real. We could take you up to go talk to the dragon later if you want.” Marcus pointed towards the rise. “Genuine dragon. Right up there under that mound.”

Aela started to say something.

"No," directed Skjor. "We wait for Vilkas."

Marcus rubbed at his own arms. "Hey, if we're gonna just sit out here like this, I'm getting kinda cold."


	11. Teeth At My Throat

“So you’re Companions?” Marcus pushed another log into the fire. He kept his tone light, to shift the mood a little. "I’ve heard of you. I do some work for a museum in Solitude that collects artifacts. It’s run by an expert on Nord History. So I’ve heard the tales of the Five Hundred and all. Ysgramor and his axe, right?”

Skjor grunted acknowledgement.

“Auryen said you folks were trying to collect its fragments, from Nordic tombs. That so?" Marcus asked. "Because I think he’d like to help sponsor that. What an amazing find that would be, to put on display.”

Vilkas scoffed. “We’re not recovering a sacred relic for the benefit of gawkers with coin. It shall be returned to the tomb of Ysgramor, so that his glory shall be restored and his name once more renowned.”

“Auryen doesn't need to hold onto original relics,” Marcus told them. “If it’s a really old and important piece, he does his research work on it and returns it to the owners after doing the measurements and making the drawings and so on. Unless there’s some reason that putting a replica of Ysgramor’s axe on display would be offend your ancestor? I bet the Bard's College would like to study it."

Vilkas looked more thoughtful.

Skjor cleared his throat.

“Oh, yeah. Getting back to that. I’m happy to make a deal with you folks.” Marcus' own teeth showed. “ _If_.”

“If what?” Aela demanded.

“That’s what we do. We do the research and the searching and then go inside these Nordic ruins so that the Dovahkiin can learn the language of the dragons. Most of the dead have wakened as draugr, so we do our best to rescue the sacred artifacts from these places, before they can be mishandled or corrupted.”

Skjor nodded, his gaze sharp. The Companions were well aware of the draugr problem.

“Any artifacts or magickal items go to the museum. Sometimes those items stay there just long enough for the curator to study and make notes on-- and take measures to preserve them-- and sometimes they stay in the museum on loan. Depends on what the local jarl says. Or the priests. Anything that’s said to belong to the Dovahkiin, he sells to Auryen and it becomes part of the permanent collection.” Marcus waited till he had the full attention of all:

“But I don’t do treasure-hunting by myself. Even if I did, I’m not going to do it without my man. So if you’re dead set on werewolf hunting, good luck finding the pieces of your axe. These old tombs are not easy to find, and even if you do-- draugr contaminate everything they touch. You have to move quickly.”

Marcus swallowed. He had said it, even if he had glossed it quickly. And the saying of a thing marks it as truth. He forced his breathing to remain steady. He could not show weakness, not here with these people. Easy, he told himself. It’s just like working.

“To find the axe of Ysgramor--” Vilkas mused. He at least was considering it.

“We cannot make such a decision on our own,” snapped Aela. “We ought to consult the Harbinger--”

“No. Not after what happened in Falkreath--” Skjor was still convinced the Dovahkiin was a fraud. 

Vilkas hissed something, urgently.

The two of them went aside.

\--

“I hope you Companions have enough funds to pay a heavy wergeld,” Marcus said to Aela. “The Dovhakiin is first cousin-- father's sister's son-- to Ulfric Stormcloak, and was at his side at Helgen and saved him from the great dragon. So there’s a life-debt there. Not to mention Whiterun Hold-- the dragon the Dovahkiin killed right there at the foot of the Western Watchtower. Did you think that was a story?”

“The Whiterun Guard killed that dragon." Aela didn't look like she believed that either.

“The great dragon Mirmulnir burned himself to ash to gift the Dovahkiin his soul upon his death, and the Dovahkiin’s Thu’um was heard across the plains of Whiterun from Rorikstead to Heljarchen.”

“Thunder,” Aela countered, uneasy.

“The Greybeards called out to the Dovahkiin, and their summons rattled every window from Riverwood to Honningbrew,” Marcus pitched his voice up so it would carry. “The Dovahkiin climbed all seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar. When he entered Kyne’s sacred temple, the Masters of the Voice bowed to him.” 

Vilkas and Skjor were still at it, something to do about the history of Jorrvaskr and the lineage of Ysmir. Neither wanted to concede. Marcus could tell they were listening to him, while pretending not to.

Marcus met Aela’s intent gaze: “They set the Dovahkiin a wyrd: to find the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, sealed in the tomb of Ustengrav long ago. We cleared the tomb of undead, but grave-robbers have stolen the horn, so he is still here looking.”

“We went out to the Western Watchtower,” Aela maintained. “There was nothing to see but a dead dragon.” She paused. "Bones of a dead dragon."

Marcus smiled. He had her now; he knew it. “You have your teeth at my throat. Do you think I lie?”

Of course Marcus lied. But not when the truth would serve him better. Another lesson from that damned elf.

“I was there with him," he said, passionately. "I was close enough to Helgen that the shadow of the black dragon Alduin passed over my head. The Dovhakiin and I passed each other on the road by chance. And I have been with him up the seven thousand steps, and knelt at the Windcaller's shrines in turn.” Marcus laughed. “The Greybeards did not want to let me in, but no one can survive a night on those slopes unscathed, so they allowed it. I heard all that Master Arngeir had to say to him.” He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “He is not the only one god-touched. I can see your wolf. I can see all of you.”

Aela’s snarl dissipated into a great sigh as Vilkas started in again, this time about Jurgen Windcaller.

Skjor glanced over at Marcus and made his opinion known with a Legion gesture. “We’ve wasted too much time.”

Reluctantly, Aela put her hand on her knife.

“One more threat and I wake the dragon,” warned Marcus. “Then you shall see whether or not the Companions need the services of the Dovahkiin.”

“Yes!” Vilkas demanded. “I want to see this dragon.”

Aela started to laugh; Skjor looked exasperated and stepped forward.

“ _Tinvaak_ ,” Marcus pitched his voice into the ground; watching the wave of the Word propagate away from him toward the dragon-mound that lay northeastward from them over that low rise. **Speak.**

Marcus had to clap hands over his ears to still the immediate racket from the Companions. Marcus had not realized that werewolves could howl in human form. 

Good to know. Perhaps it would be fun at parties. Marcus' lips moved as he counted out the seconds, his attention towards the dragon-mound.

Aela was still standing with her hands over her mouth and Vilkas looked stunned. Skjor’s eyes glowed fury. Marcus began to edge away from them.

No sound at all came from the dragon-mound, but a distant wolf-howl returned to them, far to the northeast.

Vilkas darted off in that direction. Aela followed him.

When Skjor walked back towards Marcus, Marcus backed away a few more yards to keep the distance between them. He had no weapon, himself. Aela had shaken that away from him first thing. Skjor had picked it up and tucked it into his belt. Marcus was seriously wary of men who kept trophies.

An enormous roar ripped the night, causing both of them to freeze in a crouch.

“What spell is that?” Skjor demanded, gaze skyward.

“No spell.” Marcus was too choked to speak. “It is the voice of the…" Oh shit. Shit shit shit.

_Huzrah, Dovah!_

Marcus kept backing away, still in a half-crouch. His body wouldn't let him straighten up fully. Skjor, damn him, seemed to have recovered.

 _“Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun?”_ **Has the time come to restore our ancient dominion?**

“Um? No? _Ni tiid_ , ah, uh…” Marcus squeaked and then managed to choke out “... _drem_.” **Peace.**

The dragon wasn’t visible yet and Skjor was unconvinced there was a threat. He kept advancing and Marcus kept retreating, praying he wouldn’t stumble over a rock. A shadow passed over directly over them, too close and dark to be a cloud. Wings beating soundlessly, the great dragon was visible only as a dark silhouette against the stars. Skjor froze in place and his signal-howl dwindled to a squeak. Marcus could hear his harsh breathing.

The dragon considered the man-werewolf at length.

Marcus slipped up behind Skjor and grabbed back his own dagger. Skjor struck out at him, but more than half of his attention was on the dragon, and after a brief tussle Marcus ended up clinging to the Companion's neck. He pressed the dagger against Skjor's throat. Maybe they were both about to die, but Marcus would have the satisfaction of taking this bastard down first. 

“What’s worth more to you?” he said in the Companion’s ear. “My man’s life, or yours?”

Skjor growled, wolf-wise, as if he were about to call the beast.

“You can’t,” Marcus gloated. “You just did. It’ll be at least a few days, won’t it?” Skjor tried to grab his arm and Marcus dug the knife in a little more. “Oh no you don’t... _drem_.”

Skjor’s muscles relaxed for a bare second-- and then he was fight-ready again, shifting his weight here and there, trying to force an opening. His chin was tucked down tight. Marcus was left clinging uselessly to his back. Skjor couldn’t quite dislodge him, but Marcus couldn’t get the knife in, and he knew whose strength was going to break first.

The dragon had gotten bored. Its wings flapped disgust as it rose skyward in search of worthy foes. 

“All I ask is you meet with the Dovahkiin and talk,” Panting, Marcus got a good sharp kick in. “Why’s that too much?”

Skjor dropped his weight, trying to fling Marcus off into the mud, but Marcus was ready for that and managed to stick the blade straight down the Companion's wolfshead gorget.

“Now it’s my teeth at your throat,” Marcus gloated. 

"Hold up, whelp. I think there's more than one dragon." Skjor’s voice was more human this time, and more resigned. Marcus had been right-- the moon-curse had been passing off for him.

“Swear on the souls of your ancestors and on the blood of Ysmir that you will not harm me, nor the Dovahkiin tonight or for three nights hence; and that you shall moot with the Dovahkiin in peace.”

Skjor did, absently. His chin moved as he scanned the sky, trying to find the new source of threat. 

Marcus let his magicka-sense have rein. "There!" he pointed. "It's a little one, I think."

Another roar ripped the night, far to the northeast. The Dovahkiin Shouted, and that was Vilkas’ howl. 

“Think we’d better get up there.” Marcus sheathed his knife.

Skjor was already well ahead of him.


End file.
